


Symbiont

by Bleed_Peroxide



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst, Ash Lynx Needs A Hug Too, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Okumura Eiji Needs a Hug, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, self-injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-02-08 12:42:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18623524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bleed_Peroxide/pseuds/Bleed_Peroxide
Summary: Etymology* Fromsym- +-biontNounsymbiont(pluralsymbionts)1.(ecology)An organism that lives in a symbiotic relationship; a symbiote.Beneath a pristine veneer lies a charred-black soul - or, Eiji suffers far more than he lets on.MAJOR trigger warnings for graphic depictions of self-injury(both writing and art). This was originally going to be a one-shot... but ended up as an ongoing collab between myself and the artist exploring this idea in various places. Title changed from "Strawberry Gashes" --> "Symbiont", as the latter title felt more fitting for various reasons.





	1. Strawberry Gashes

_Pomegranate, cherry-red, petals of rose... would that you were the dew on my flesh._

The clock strikes twelve, and like a twisted fairy tale, the prince awakened from his slumber and the transformation began.

He stole a glance at the resting figure next to him, marveling how fondly Luna regarded him. Eiji always thought Ash looked beautiful in sunlight.... but truly, he was divine by the light of the moon. He was diaphanous and delicate.... indeed, he'd never understood how men passed tales of ten'nyo adorned in celestial robes until he'd met Ash. He understood, then, why men had to ascribe such beings to divinity.

Ash would disagree. "Like a penny tossed into too many gutters," he'd quipped. "I'm filthier than you'll ever know."

As he tiptoed to the bathroom, Eiji wondered how much filthier he must be in comparison. Ash, for all his "filth", didn't smear it upon himself. 

With the quiet click of the door locking, he let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding before getting to work. 

Eiji stared at his arms, lips quirking into a rueful smile as he began to scrub away at layers of tattoo concealer on his arms. Like a spell, smooth flesh like a pure canvas melted away. When the soapy suds spiraled into the drain, he marveled at the amalgamation of raised scars and pink lines - cuts, burns, and welts all applied with surgical precision.

There's a perverse sense of artistry in his labors.

"Like _kintsugi_ ," he murmured to the mirror, a hysterical giggle bubbling out at the very idea. It was almost blasphemous, likening beauty with intentional destruction. But oh, how good he was at this particular art: taking a perfectly sound body and shattering it, his precious lacquer the blackest corners of hatred and blood poured into the seams along his skin.

 _Worthless. Nothing. You should have died instead_.

He twiddled the box-cutter knife between his fingers, admiring the diamond glitter of it in the light as it seemed to be crying for blood. His gaze shifted from the flawless sheen of the knife’s blade to the milky white of his arms.

He found fresh skin, a canvas that longed to be transformed. Nothing less than a masterpiece would do, ripe with the most seductive shades of rouge. But his was a private artform, hidden from unappreciative eyes.

Keeping his hand steady, Eiji pressed the blade to his forearm with a delirious shiver. The familiar prelude, the opening act.... his eyes slid closed with anticipation. He dragged it along as slowly as his ravaged nerves would allow, permitting himself the smallest of gasps to escape as acute, sweet pain jolted through him.

The blade did nothing but create an indent at first - _I should probably sharpen this one_  – but with a more determined tug, stubborn flesh gave way to vermillion. The second the blade split his flesh, it stirred within him a visceral release, like clipping so many strings on a marionette. Here, finally, in this tiny sanctuary.... the last of his defenses could give way and the performance could end. A sense of completion, inevitability.

In the early years of high school, he'd seen a girl in one of his classes with parallel lines peeking from the tops of her socks. He'd seen her idly marking the skin, as though leaving hatch marks on the wall. Foolish boy that he'd been, he couldn’t reason why one would do it... why someone would hurt themselves on purpose.

That had been a decade ego. He wished that he had never learned, that he hadn’t come to understand it as well as he did.  

 _You have no career. You ruined everything_.

Slice.

_You're nothing to Ash. You're just a burden. Useless. Worthless._

Slice.

_Ash should have killed you instead. You're weak._

Slice. Grit teeth, hand tightening on the handle. The rivulets of red thicken, but it's not enough yet.

 _Ash wishes he had killed you instead_.

Slice.

_It's your fault Skipper died._

Slice. He staggered a bit, a flash of panic at how lightheaded he feels.

_It's your fault that Jennifer died._

Slice.

It's not enough. No matter how much he atones, it'll never, _ever_ be enough. No blood sacrifice can carry the weight of his sins.

_It's your fault Shorter died._

Slice.

_It's your fault he had to go back to Golzine. It's your fault he nearly died._

A surprised gasp as the blade sank deeper, as steady crimson became more erratic.

But it's not enough, it's still not-

_All. Your. Fucking. **Fault**._

Slice. Slice. Slice.

The clatter of the knife to the tile brought Eiji to his senses. Red covered his sleeves, his hands, dripped into the porcelain sink, like a murder-

"Eiji? You alright in there?"

The sleepiness clinging to Ash's voice, unaware of the violence behind the door, was such a contrast to the stark terror flooding Eiji that he couldn't help but laugh.

"Just dropped the tweezers, it is nothing. Go back to sleep."

Ash mumbled in the affirmative back before his gentle snores filled the quiet space once more.

Staring at his masterpiece, Eiji wonders idly what he ought to call it. Didn't every artist label their handwork?

_Oh, vain Narcissus - how long must you admire your own reflection?_

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is inspired by the beautiful piece of Eiji that one of my friends drew (the incredibly talented [@saltysnacks](https://twitter.com/saItysnacks)), which I added at the end. I was inspired, and if they were okay with me writing centered on the idea. As you can guess, they were hella supportive. ♥
> 
> Simply put, I firmly believe that Eiji's severe depression didn't simply end when he arrived in America - far from it. I like delving into that despair a bit, and plan to do so more often in the future. If that's your thing, glad that you're still here and maybe "enjoyed" it? If not.... welp, the tags warned you.


	2. Wednesday's Child

The silence that met Ash when he walked into the apartment was the eternal stillness of a morgue. His hair was damp with sweat, as well as his salt-crusted shirt courtesy of the sweltering weather blanketing the city. Yet he felt himself shuddering with the sudden chill that settled into his limbs.       

Something was wrong. Fear trickled into his veins at the realization. In the Eden nestled amidst concrete and glass.... there lied a viper. Something, _someone,_  had dared to intrude upon the tranquility of his sanctuary.   

No, _their_ sanctuary. This was the one place in the city he had ensured would keep Eiji safe - and someone had dared blaspheme it.  

Fear shifted to anger. Anger was easier - anger loosened the claws of terror around his throat and let him breathe. Anger gave strength to his voice and a briskness to his steps as he took stock of the apartment.  

The kitchen was undisturbed - the dishes remained drying in the dish rack, a towel hung primly upon the stove handle. The cabinets were filled with a mixture of delicate Japanese tea cups and heavy dinner plates. Ash had wrinkled his nose at the mismatch, wondering aloud if it was sacrilege to drink coffee from a tea mug or take-out sushi on embossed Bernardaud.  

"I don't think so," Eiji had answered. "I think they're a lot like us, don't you think?"  

Elegant, practical Japanese pottery tucked into foreign spaces, filled to the brim with a warmth that seeped deliciously into Ash's bones. Expensive porcelain, beautifully made and riddled with cracks from clumsy hands. 

The aptness of the metaphor would have felt cruel, had it not been paired with a guileless smile.  

The kitchen was untouched. The living room was much the same, books stacked neatly on the coffee table and the rug creased with vacuum marks. Not for the first time, Ash marveled at Eiji's housekeeping skills - there wasn't so much as a spec of dust catching sunlight through the blinds.  

The pristine quality of the apartment was at odds with the chaos coiling in Ash's gut. If anything, its perfection set his teeth on edge. Perfection meant destruction -  the surface of a lake bore the smoothness of glass moments before an alligator broke the surface. The creamy smoothness of pottery in one's hands triggered the mad impulse to watch it shatter. 

"Eiji? Are you in here?"  

Silence was his answer.  

Had Eiji gone shopping? Ash glanced at the pair of hooks by the front door - Eiji's keys were still hanging up. Eiji had never been the kind of person to simply waltz out of the apartment without them, so that had to mean he was still in here.  

Ash could feel his heart clattering against his ribs, nerves humming with a sense of danger.  

_He might have fallen asleep taking a bath. He's done it before._  

He peered his head around the door frame, not wanting to startle Eiji or impose on his sense of modesty. The curtain was wide open, porcelain tub gleaming.... and notably empty.  

_Fuck._  

That left one place - the bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, and through the crack, he saw a familiar pair of feet and tan slacks laying on the carpet.  

Eiji _never_ sat on the floor. He often chastised Ash for doing so. "You paid all this money for nice furniture you do not even use", paired with that endearing pout that made Ash want to kiss the sternness away from his mouth. 

Ash cupped a hand around his own, fighting the overwhelming urge to vomit. He all but staggered into the bedroom, throwing open the door and bracing himself for whatever horror waited to greet him.  

Eiji sat near the foot of the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling unseeingly like a sinner beseeching their god. His lips moved without ceasing, words tumbling out of them too quietly for Ash to hear. Ash's eyes shifted further down, and his blood ran cold.  

Ash had never understood out why Eiji insisted on wearing cardigans regardless of the weather. Ash asked him about it, once, and decided not to broach the topic again when Eiji's face went pale as a ghost. Eiji had barely been able to string two syllables together to attempt a lie; Ash wasn't sadistic enough to force him to answer a clearly loaded question. 

In hindsight, Ash wished he'd pressed harder for honesty. Words, he thought, would have been easier to process that the stark reality shoved under his nose.  

Eiji's arms were littered in innumerable cuts, as though a demented artist had used razorblades and human flesh instead of a paintbrush and canvas. Some were parallel while others were an experiment in abstract lines - Ash had seen enough injuries in his lifetime to know in an instant that these were made with intention. Some were thin and silvery, reminding Ash irrationally of tiger stripes. But more of them were angry pink lines against the alabaster of his skin.  

The most worrying was a deceptively simple purple line that ran vertically from Eiji's wrist to the middle of his forearm. Purple scars, Ash knew, came from very deep injuries - lethal, even, if one pressed hard enough.  

A morbid rhyme drifted across his mind, a perverse lullaby for lost boys stuck in juvie:  _if you wanna go to heaven, go down the street - not across the road._  

That Eiji would have traveled down that road made the world tip on its axis. 

Eiji, proverbial sunshine, hid vestiges of death beneath mascot sweaters and pink cashmere.  

Ash couldn't reconcile it.  

He couldn't reconcile that Eiji had _fresh_ cuts on his arms. His mind blessedly blank, he watched with numb fascination as red streamed quietly from Eiji’s wounds, staining ivory carpet vermilion. 

Eiji's blood. Spilled by his own hands.  

The world blurred curiously around the edges, and Ash found he couldn't be bothered to stop himself as the strength gave out from his knees.  

"Eiji, Eiji.... what's going on? What did you do...?" Ash tried to ask. How did one even begin?

He felt a faint flutter of surprise that such a brittle voice was his own. Ash Lynx didn't sound like his world was falling apart around him.  

Ash Lynx didn't cry. Ash motherfucking Lynx didn't pry a bloody razor blade gently from another man's palm, with careful movements akin to reverence.  

He was terrified that anything more rash would be all it took to shatter him if he already wasn't.  

Somewhere in the corner of his heart, Ash let out a cruel laugh - who was this man that was "shattered"? Was it Eiji? Was it Ash? He wasn't sure at this point. Broken flesh, a broken heart - it all felt the same, didn't it?  

"My fault, my fault, my fault..."  

Ash glanced up, not sure if he was hearing things. He followed the sound of the noise and found that Eiji's lips were still moving. He seemed to be caught in some loop in the depths of his mind - he hadn't so much as flinched when Ash removed his implements. In fact, he hardly seemed aware that Ash was there at all.  

"My fault, my fault, my fault, my fault...."  

With each syllable, Ash felt like another piece of his heart sloughed off with it.  

_My fault. My fault. My fault._  

Jade eyes drifted to the edge of Eiji's arm, noting how the steady drips of blood seemed to fall in time with Eiji's mutterings.  

_Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip._  

He understood, with sudden clarity, how men went mad with the mere sound of water dripping on their foreheads. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Monday's child is fair of face._  
>  _Tuesday's child is full of grace._  
>  _Wednesday's child is full of woe._  
>  _Thursday's child has far to go._  
>  _Friday's child is loving and giving._  
>  _Saturday's child works hard for a living._  
>  _But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day._  
>  _Is bonny and blithe and good and gay._  
>   
>  Yoshida refused to give us a birthday for Eiji, after all. :^)


End file.
